


op. posth.

by restez



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:21:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27570700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restez/pseuds/restez
Summary: "This story began with Sozin, but it is about Zuko and Azula."A rivalry destroys a friendship. Generations later, it nearly destroys Zuko and Azula.
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	op. posth.

This story is not about Sozin, but it must begin with him.

His family history was already firmly rooted in the wealthiest district of Ba Sing Se by the time he was born. Though generations of influential politicians preceded him, Sozin’s parents had no strict demands for his future. Their only request was that he not spend his life idling around. 

As a boy raised in a privileged household, however, Sozin was spoiled beyond measure. He was a remarkable student, but outside his academic pursuits, he had little discipline; he spent money frivolously, on games, comics, and snacks that were quickly abandoned or handed off to his best friend, Roku, and he often bribed his classmates to get his own way. His father hoped weekly music lessons would temper this behavior.

So at thirteen, Sozin was introduced to the piano.

The instructor his parents hired was a young man in his thirties named Chan, a graduate of a famous overseas conservatory. He was a patient and dedicated teacher, but also jaded and cynical. Too often did rich families seek him out, offering him an overly generous pay, only to fire him a month later, when their children realized they would have to _practice_ to improve. Chan never treated his students unkindly, but he didn’t expect Sozin to be any different from his predecessors, either. 

For a while, he was right. 

During their first lessons, Sozin was uninterested. Though he politely followed Chan’s instructions and properly learned his scales, there was a reluctance to his movements, an unmistakable tinge of boredom in his otherwise stoic expression. Chan began to comb through the ads in his newspapers again, hoping to find another client. There was no doubt in his mind that Sozin would soon decide that he had yawned one yawn too many.

Then, things changed.

Their fifth week together, Chan arrived at the mansion with two basic level books under his arm. The butler escorted him inside, taking him to where the piano was kept, a large parlor with light streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. As usual, Sozin was already seated before the piano, legs crossed and fingers impatiently drumming against the closed fallboard.

“Good morning, Sozin,” said Chan pleasantly, setting his thermos down on a side table. “Have you been practicing your arpeggios?”

“Teacher Chan,” Sozin replied, ignoring his question, “do you know what this song is called?”

Immediately, he lifted the cover off the piano keys and played without hesitation. Chan remained on his feet, stunned even after his student had finished.

“That’s,” he finally managed to say, still awestruck, “Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20, in C-sharp minor. You learned that in a week?” 

They had moved away from Middle C position only three lessons ago.

“No, I heard it the other day.” Sozin shrugged, absentmindedly playing a C Major arpeggio.

Chan sat down in the chair beside the piano bench, facing the boy with wide eyes. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “What do you mean you ‘heard it?’”

Upon hearing his teacher’s probing tone, Sozin guardedly answered, “Some guy played it during my dad’s charity gala on Saturday. It was a good song, so I thought I’d ask you for its name.”

Chan stood, then sat, then stood again. All the while, Sozin stared at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“You played that by ear?”

“I played it with my hands,” said Sozin, carefully enunciating every syllable. “Are you feeling alright, Teacher Chan?”

“No, that’s not—I mean, you didn’t look at any music sheets or anything? You just...remembered how it sounded?”

“Oh.” Sozin looked down at his lap, embarrassed to be caught not knowing something, before meeting his instructor’s gaze. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The beginner lesson books tucked underneath Chan’s armpit seemed comical now. He placed them beside his thermos and paced the floor.

Chan might have attended a reputable conservatory after years of rigorous training, but he had never considered himself a “genius.” His time abroad, while wonderful and valuable, had shown him a world of skill levels beyond his own, of students who had worked harder and trained longer, of genuine virtuosos with immeasurable talent and innate musicality. 

He prided himself on his own abilities and his determination to refine them, but a part of him still envied those who were _better._ They belonged to a dimension he had always deemed untouchable.

 _Then if_ I _can’t be a prodigy_ , he thought, _why not be the teacher of one?_

Sozin’s shoulders jumped as Chan abruptly rounded on him. “I need to speak to your parents.”

//

Playing the piano was more enjoyable once everyone found out Sozin was naturally good at it.

With a new schedule of three lessons a week, he and Chan dedicated their time to revamping his mundane repertoire of “Hot Cross Buns” and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.” Within two weeks of Chan’s discussion with his parents, Sozin had mastered Debussy’s “Clair de Lune” and a few of Chopin’s waltzes. 

Professional musicians were no longer hired to perform at his family’s charity galas. Instead, his parents paid _him_ to play two or three pieces. Even without the money, Sozin would have played. The applause and praise, the expressions of awe and envy—they were sweeter rewards than a few hundred bucks.

Roku was impressed. 

He and Sozin used to frequent the markets after school, proudly showing off the crest on their expensive uniform blazers or getting into trouble they were never really punished for because of their families’ influence. These days, Sozin spent more time inside, learning Mozart or Beethoven, but this didn’t bother Roku. 

It would have before. Music had always seemed like a waste of a time to him until he heard Sozin play the piano. Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 changed his mind.

“Do you think I could be a musician, too?” he asked, taking a seat in Chan’s chair. 

“If you want to,” sniffed Sozin, setting the fallboard of his piano down, “but don’t expect to be good at it right away, like me.”

Roku grinned and playfully kicked a leg of Sozin’s piano bench. Unlike their classmates, he wasn’t bothered by Sozin’s occasional haughtiness. They had been friends for far too long for such a fault to drive a wedge between them.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t want to play the piano.”

At the offended look on his friend’s face, Roku rolled his eyes. “There’s nothing _wrong_ with the piano. I like it. I just want to play the violin.”

“Oh.” The crease between Sozin’s eyebrows vanished. “Why?”

“Because it looks cool,” Roku replied very seriously. He lifted his arms and positioned them in what he thought was perfect violin posture. 

“You look dumb,” said Sozin, earning himself another kick to a bench leg. He laughed. “If you want to learn the violin that badly, I can ask Teacher Chan if he knows someone who can teach you.”

Roku’s face brightened.

//

Chan and Kyoshi got along well during their days at the conservatory, but as teachers, though they were both patient and attentive, they were different. 

To Roku, Chan seemed like an impressively successful older brother, not entirely understandable or approachable but amiable just the same. Teacher Kyoshi, by contrast, was a clear-cut figure of authority who commanded respect. 

Her lessons were rigorous, her instructions peremptory and her praises sparse. Roku’s parents worried that learning the violin under her tutelage would be too hard on him, but he wasn’t fazed. He _liked_ Teacher Kyoshi’s methods. They were difficult, and Roku never perfected them on the first try as Sozin did with Chan’s, but he enjoyed learning and steadily making progress. Besides, Teacher Kyoshi’s compliments might have been rare, but they were well-earned when they came.

Roku could not play by ear like Sozin could, but the violin was meant to be his. He took his time with his songs to make them his own, to showcase a prowess refined by dedicated practice and honed skill; he was a prodigy by his own definition. Without Teacher Kyoshi ever telling him, he knew this.

//

Sozin was glad to have his best friend understand the world of classical music. 

While they kept some of their old routines, like buying candy after school or comparing homework and notes to study for upcoming exams, they began to constantly talk about practice, recitals, and new pieces they’d started. During their lunch breaks, they would rush through their meals to make sure they had enough time to visit the music room, where they each alternated between playing and listening. 

Performances by other musicians bored Sozin, but with Roku, it felt like a competition. At the end of their practices, he allowed himself to admit that Roku was good but never to be the one who applauded first.

“Hey,” said Roku, on a warm day close to summer vacation, “listen to this.”

The familiar melody of Nocturne No. 20 filled the room, this time in the plaintive voice of the violin. There were notes Roku couldn’t translate from the piano to his own instrument, but the song was there, its spirit perfectly rendered. When he finished, he held his posture for a moment more, before he relaxed, grinning giddily. “It’s a duet! Teacher Kyoshi played the piano parts to help me learn.”

“I know.” Sozin crossed his arms. He didn’t really, but he didn’t want Roku to think Kyoshi was a better instructor than Chan. A bit peeved, he said, “You could have asked me to play the piano parts.”

Unbothered by Sozin’s tetchy tone, Roku pointed his bow at him. “Actually, that’s what I wanted to ask you. You know my birthday party is in a month, right?”

“Yes, Roku,” Sozin responded, feigning concern. “Our birthdays are on the same day, remember? We shared a party last year at my house when we turned fourteen. Ring any bells?”

“Shut up, you idiot,” said Roku, without any real heat in his voice. He aimed a kick at the piano bench. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’m performing for my guests during the party, and I wanted to ask if you’d like to play that duet with me.”

Sozin perked up, always eager for a chance to perform for an audience. “Your parents have a piano?”

“We rented one for Teacher Kyoshi to play while I was learning the song. It’ll still be there by the time our birthday comes.”

He thought for a moment as Roku started to pack his violin away. “Is she going to be there?”

“Who?” asked Roku, closing the clasps of his case.

“Teacher Kyoshi.” Sozin had yet to play the piano for her. She knew of him through Chan and Roku’s endless anecdotes, but he wanted to see her approval for himself.

“Of course!” Roku clutched his violin case close, eyes wide open like he couldn’t even imagine his birthday party without Kyoshi there. “She’s practically the guest of honor!”

Sozin snorted. “It’s _our_ birthday.”

“I stand by what I said.” Sitting down in the only other chair in the room, he leaned forward, excited. “So? You in?”

//

Over a decade ago, on his first day of school, Sozin’s teacher grouped him together with two of his incompetent classmates to create a drawing of their playground, which was exclusive to daycare students. The girl and boy, whose names he’d forgotten, neglected to add in the horse-shaped spring riders next to the see-saws.

“We don’t need it,” the girl argued stubbornly when he insisted fixing the mistake with a red crayon. “I don’t like them. Do you like them?”

She turned to the boy next to her, who was busy rubbing at his nose with his jacket sleeve. He shook his head. “I fell off one.”

Facing Sozin again, she nodded, as if this settled the discussion. “He fell off one! We don’t need it.”

“You’re stupid.” Sozin bared his teeth, like he’d seen one of the tigers in his picture books do. “The teacher said to draw everything. We can’t draw everything without the horses.”

“But I just did. I drew everything without the horses.” She stuck her tongue out at him.

Sozin bristled, ready to tear apart the paper, when a boy emerged from behind him.

“No, he’s right,” Roku interjected soberly, his box of twenty-four crayons cradled in his arms. “You can’t draw everything without the horses.”

Wisely, he inspected their assignment. “You’re gonna get in trouble.”

The boy in Sozin’s group suddenly became teary. He _knew_ he should have just stayed home with his mother. Instead, he’d come to school, and now he was going to get into trouble because he didn’t like horses. Frantically, he reached for his own set of colored pencils, snatching up a blue one at random and moving to sketch in a crude horse. The girl caught his hand, yelling in indignation. “No! You’re making it ugly!”

She pulled the paper from his grasp, nearly crumpling it in her fist. Throwing Sozin and Roku a dirty look, she pulled the other boy up to his feet. “Come on, let’s go somewhere else to work.”

She stomped off, dragging the boy with her.

Angrily, Sozin stuck his tongue out after her, then opened his sketchbook to tear out a new page for a better drawing. Roku sat on the ground beside him, already handing him an orange crayon as Sozin carefully drew in the slides. Their teacher later scolded them for leaving their groups and fighting with their classmates, but the picture turned out beautifully, made complete by the spring riders in the corner.

Since then, Sozin knew he and Roku worked well together; where one fell short, the other could be counted on to pick up the slack. It was no wonder their duet for Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 went so well. Sozin hadn’t expected anything other than absolute excellence as the outcome.

The thing he hadn’t expected, however, was how the performance would change him.

During their rehearsals, they’d been equals, two halves of a whole—but for the actual party, Sozin, for the first time in his life, felt small. 

It was as if there was a camera zoomed in on Roku’s performance, and he himself was only in the background, a decorative accompaniment rather than a partner of a duet. He sensed the crowd’s shift in attention, from him, to the two of them, then to Roku alone. Even Teacher Chan, who had raised his champagne glass to him before they’d started, smiled at the way Roku’s bow moved across the strings of his violin.

When the song was over, Teacher Kyoshi’s proud gaze was fixed on her student, first and foremost, before it fell to him like an afterthought.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Sozin,” she said as Roku beamed at them. “You were wonderful.”

The praise was anything but sweet.

“She said you were _wonderful_ ,” Roku whispered after their teachers left to speak to the crowd of curious parents gathering around them. “She’s never given me that compliment before!”

His friend was thrilled, free from jealousy, but Sozin felt as if the glass in his hand might splinter apart in his tight hold. Kyoshi’s words had been genuine, but they paled in comparison to the unspoken respect in her eyes for her own student’s talent, to the way the audience had held their breath, never daring to look away from Roku’s elegant figure as the last notes of the song had petered out.

The fierce burn of competition, so common during their lunch breaks in the school music room, returned to Sozin again, but this time, it scorched him. 

He turned to Roku, and his friend seemed to detect the rising tumult of resentment deep in his stomach.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” replied Sozin, placing his drink on the tray of a passing server. “Nothing’s wrong.”

 _I just need to be_ better _than you._

“I need to go home.”

“What?” asked Roku, astonished. “But they haven’t even brought out the cake. Do you feel sick or something?”

He shook his head, moving off into the crowd. “There’s something I need to do.”

“Sozin!” Roku called out after him, trying to follow, but a group of guests cut him off, blocking his way. When he got past them at last, Sozin was already gone.

//

_Comparison is the thief of joy._

This maxim echoed in the deepest pits of Sozin’s mind, and he grew to despise it.

 _You don’t understand_ , he would think. _Music was mine. It was_ mine _, and he took it._

Sozin had spent his whole life handing his things off to Roku, and the generosity had come back to bite him. His only option was to bite back—to regain what was originally his.

//

He asked his parents to hire a new teacher.

“But you said you liked Teacher Chan,” said his mother, baffled by his request. “Is there something wrong?”

“I like the piano,” Sozin corrected, “and Chan has nothing left to teach me. I need someone better.”

The instructor they found, Teacher Koh, was a thin, proud man in his fifties who thought students from Kyoshi and Chan’s conservatory were mediocre at best and downright intolerable at worst. His lessons were just as demanding as Chan’s but with none of his patience and warmth. Sozin hardly cared. He wanted improvement, not kindness. Chan’s softhearted approach to teaching had weakened him, depriving him of opportunities to strengthen his potential. He understood that now.

Roku said nothing about Chan’s sudden disappearance, but he was visibly troubled by it, and it was clear he wasn’t very fond of Teacher Koh’s attitude. 

“He doesn’t want you to learn,” he’d say. “He wants you to be good.”

“So?” Sozin retorted. “I’m already good. I just want to be the best.”

Contempt continued to well up inside him, whetting the sharp edge of his jealousy. As the rest of the world slowly recognized his talents, he grew more and more aware of Roku’s. He stopped coming to the music room during their lunches. The first few times, Sozin gave excuses, about missed tests or urgent errands given by tiresome teachers, and then he gave none at all, leaving Roku to wait alone as he himself ate his meals in the canteen.

For their next three birthdays, Sozin agreed to play the same duet, if only to twist their joint performance into a brutal competition. He played vindictively, refusing to be pushed aside. The audience might have belonged to Roku when they were fifteen, but for the years that came afterward, they were undoubtedly Sozin’s. 

Only Kyoshi was unimpressed. 

“What happened?” she asked them both, her voice nearly inaudible in the banquet hall their parents had reserved for their eighteenth birthday party. “You two aren’t in harmony anymore.”

“That’s what happens when two musicians are at drastically different skill levels, I’m afraid,” interjected Teacher Koh as he sidled up to stand beside Sozin. “Maybe with a little more training, Roku will be able to improve.”

“They’re both good, Teacher Koh,” said Kyoshi, stiffly tacking on the honorifics to the older man’s name. “That isn’t the problem. Don’t you think their performance lacked the _spirit_ of a duet? It didn’t seem like a partnership to me.”

Teacher Koh nodded the way he did when he was only half-listening to someone speak. He put his hand on Sozin’s shoulder. “Then perhaps the next duet will please you. Though I doubt there will be any more. Sozin will be going away to attend my alma mater in Omashu, after all. It’s a very, very selective school, you know.”

At this, Roku, who had seemed more and more resigned as the conversation continued, turned to Sozin, brow creased. “I thought you wanted to apply to Caldera City.”

Caldera City was home to Chan and Kyoshi’s conservatory. There was a time, years ago, when he and Roku had eagerly looked forward to becoming students there.

“ _Caldera City_ ,” Teacher Koh scoffed. When Kyoshi glanced sharply at him, he generously added, “I’m sure it worked out well for you and Chan, Kyoshi, but their standards have suffered, don’t you know? It’s simply impossible for any respectable musician to find any success there now.”

“ _I’ll_ be going there,” Roku snapped, levelling a hostile glare at the man.

“Roku,” Kyoshi warned, but he didn’t seem to hear her.

Sozin watched, bewildered, as his friend snarled, “If Omashu’s where you got that pretentious attitude, then it’s the last place I’d ever want to go.”

“Oh, young man,” replied Teacher Koh with a pitying smile, pulling at the lapels of his suit, “it’s the last place that would ever accept someone like you.” 

It took a second for Roku to register the insult, but the moment he did, Kyoshi intercepted before he could strike back.

“Teacher Koh,” she said, stony-faced, her gaze cold and hard as she placed a steadying hand on her student’s shoulder. For a moment, Sozin remembered how intimidated he had felt five years ago when he first met her. “I understand my student’s behavior was unwarranted, but I can’t say I approve of your response, either.”

“Teacher Kyoshi,” he said, but the honorific seemed mocking, “with all due respect, you and Chan have always been too soft. How can your students ever expect to achieve excellence when you can’t even keep them from speaking out of turn?”

Anger glowed in Kyoshi’s eyes, like the sparks of an imminent fire. “Thank you for your insight, but I promise you, we will manage even without it.”

With that, she turned away, steering Roku back to the party before either of them lost their tempers. 

“It’s a damn shame people like us have to share the spotlight with people like that, isn’t it?” Teacher Koh muttered, shaking his head regretfully as he watched the two of them leave. Again, he fixed the lapels of his suit, then picked off a stray hair from the front of his blazer. “I apologize, Sozin. I know he’s your best friend, but I was only being honest. It’s important to be honest. Otherwise, how is that boy supposed to learn any discipline?”

“I understand, Teacher Koh,” said Sozin, his chest tight with fury.

“Good.” 

As soon as his instructor was swept away by a group of his parents’ friends, Sozin set off to seek out Roku. He eventually found him tucked away in a corner, poking at a plate of red velvet cake with a withdrawn expression.

“What’s your problem?” Sozin hissed, startling him.

Roku’s face quickly shifted from surprise to indignation. In a low voice, he retorted, just as resentfully, “ _My_ problem? What the hell is _yours_? I don’t even understand half the things you do anymore!”

“What are you even talking about?”

Stabbing his fork into his cake slice, Roku gave him an incredulous look, as if Sozin had offended him merely by asking a reasonable question.

“Why were you such an ass to Teacher Koh?”

Roku’s mouth settled into a tense straight line. “I don’t know—why did you drop Teacher Chan for him? Why did you stop coming to the music room? Why did you suddenly decide to change your mind about Caldera City without _telling_ me?”

His cake was a mess of crumbs and frosting by this point. 

Sozin stared at him, his irritation hardening into malice. “I wasn’t aware that I had to ask permission from you for everything I do. Why should I have to explain myself to you?”

“Because as your friend, I thought I at least deserved an explanation, especially when you _ditched_ me without even saying anything!” Roku fell back against his chair, looking at Sozin like he couldn’t quite believe he was real. “I might not matter to you anymore, but I’m still a fucking person.”

Toward the front of the banquet hall, a band began to play. They hardly heard it.

“And? What do you want to hear?” Sozin spat. “An apology? You want me to kneel and beg for forgiveness or something?”

“Give me a reason”—Roku crossed his arms—“for the last three years.”

Sozin knew he could just turn around and leave, like he did when they were fifteen, but when he recalled the shock and humiliation he had faced that night, he stood his ground. “I’m becoming a better musician.” 

_Than you,_ he left unsaid, but Roku seemed to know.

For a moment, there was nothing more than the commotion of the banquet hall, which felt strangely distant. Then, Roku’s shoulders sank, defeated, but harshly, he demanded, “Is that all I’m worth to you?”

 _A rival and nothing more_. Even during the bitterest moments of the last three years, Roku had trusted their long-standing friendship to weather through the difficulties, but Sozin’s answering silence was a deep cut of betrayal.

This time, it was he who left.

//

Their separation did not ease the heavy hand of Sozin’s bitter jealousy, nor did it appease his ruthless pursuit of excellence, and this bitterness, this intolerance for mediocrity, was eventually passed down to his son, Azulon.

Born with perfect pitch, Azulon was good at piano and even better at composing. He modelled his songs after his own virtuosity, snidely discrediting anyone who couldn’t keep up with the techniques he used. As far as he was concerned, the piano was sacred to those who had the talent for it, and anyone else who tried to play was deluded. Unlike his father, he had no fixed rivals; he crushed them all. 

“Raise yourself to such a standard that the only way people can ever hope to get close to you is when they’re at your feet, defeated.” It was his favorite thing to say, especially when he followed it up with: “Anything less than that is failure.”

These words guided his own children’s lives like a war flag. Ozai and Iroh did not need to look far for a rivalry; they found it in each other.

Iroh was Azulon’s favorite. He never said this aloud, but there are some things that don’t need to be said aloud to be known and understood. His older son proved to be a truly gifted violinist, and this pleased him, because it felt like an honorable reclamation of his father’s only weakness. Azulon often spoke as if the legacy of their family would live through Iroh alone, even though Ozai was no less talented at the piano. 

In spite of this, not once was Ozai discouraged. He had inherited his grandfather’s merciless demand for excellence, and he stubbornly fought for Azulon’s favor. 

Still, there were difficulties. Ozai had Zuko, while Iroh had Lu Ten. 

Lu Ten, the perfect son and grandson, who took the stage at the Ba Sing Se Concert Hall when he was four and won an international piano competition at seven. Lu Ten, who received invitations to interviews on television and composed concertos for their family’s annual summer galas, hosted in honor of the late Sozin’s birthday. Lu Ten, who made Iroh the invariably better son, even after he was dead.

During the funeral, for the first time in his life, Ozai saw his father weep.

“I have lost my grandson,” he sobbed, kneeling before the casket with Iroh by his side. Ozai stood just behind him, staring at the back of Azulon’s head.

He could not say it, could not say, “You have Zuko,” because what comfort would that give, a grandson who could barely play through Bach’s Minuet in G Major without months of practice compared to a grandson who could master Liszt in weeks? For years, he’d watch over the boy’s piano lessons, his disapproval souring into disdain all the while. No, it would only make the loss cut that much deeper if he said it.

So instead, Ozai said, “You have Azula.”

//

Still, somebody had to say it, had to say, “You have Zuko,” so Iroh said it to himself.

Lu Ten’s death had dulled the world of music for him. They had often played duets together when Lu Ten visited on the weekends. Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 was their favorite; it was the song they had planned to play on the day of the accident. Iroh could no longer pick up the violin without feeling as if he’d lost one-half of his soul, but he loved hearing Zuko play the piano.

Ozai resented this. “You’re only encouraging his lack of discipline. It’ll teach him to be weak.”

“Zuko is an accomplished pianist. He only needs someone who’s willing to teach him the way he needs to be taught,” he’d reply. It took longer for Zuko to master basic techniques and learn new songs, but he possessed a certain kind of flexibility and determination that allowed him to pave his own path to improvement. This wasn’t enough in Ozai’s house, his world of prodigies and geniuses, of daughters who could read music notes before words.

“Oh?” Ozai responded, no longer pretending to hide his hostility. “So I suppose you’re a better teacher than me, as well?”

The unspoken rivalry Azulon had forced upon them since childhood left a permanent stain on their relationship. Though grief had pacified him, Iroh could not forgive his younger brother for his cruel and unyielding ambition, for treating Lu Ten’s death like an advantage in a contest. Even after their father was gone, Ozai celebrated his achievements like they were testaments to his superiority.

Iroh could see the beginnings of a similar history developing between Zuko and Azula, and it worried him. 

There was, of course, a softness in Zuko, placed there by a mother who had cared, but there was also an accusatory edge to the way he looked at Azula, the violin prodigy who fiercely wielded her virtuosity like a weapon against her older brother. Iroh remembered a time when _Zuzu_ had been an endearment rather than a provocation. Nowadays, they couldn’t even call each other “brother” or “sister” without tacking on the obligatory “but” afterwards: _You’re my sister, but you’re father’s favorite. You’re my brother, but you’re father’s reject._

When Zuko gave up the piano at sixteen, Ozai didn’t care even when the media did. 

“We heard about your son. It’s such a shame,” journalists said, once, twice, and a hundred times more. “After three generations of successful musicians, how do you feel about your daughter being the only one to carry on the legacy?”

 _Is that all we’re worth to you? A legacy and nothing more,_ Iroh wanted to counter, but magazines and talk shows rarely ever cared about him anymore.

‘ _We heard about your son. It’s such a shame_ ,’ was what they had said to him, too, right before they’d wrapped up his career with an unsympathetically concise headline: ‘Genius Violinist Retires After Losing Son in Tragic Accident.’

He was stuck in front of television screens now, watching as his brother smiled graciously at the cameras and answered, “Some people are born with the ability to play music, and some people are born with the ability to do other things.” 

_Some people are born lucky, and some people are lucky to be born._

Some things don’t need to be said aloud to be known and understood.

//

Once Zuko left home to live with him, Iroh offered him a job as a server at his tea shop. The silence that crept in after giving up an instrument could shroud people in their own loneliness; he knew this. After he had laid both Lu Ten and his violin to rest, opening The Jasmine Dragon led him out of that darkness. He hoped it could do the same for his nephew.

With patience and warmth, Iroh showed him how to balance a tray laden with drinks on one hand while clearing a table with the other, how to handle small talk as he took orders, how to set the shop up at the start of the day and how to close it at the end, and how to brew a proper cup of tea. 

“Just remember, we serve tea, _not_ hot leaf juice,” he’d say, much to Zuko’s chagrin.

In time, between warily befriending the staff and learning the names of their regulars, Zuko became a part of the shop. Slowly, like the lemon cream sun rays that steadily brightened the walls of The Jasmine Dragon every morning, Zuko became happier. 

His tea was _much_ better, Iroh noted with great satisfaction, and though Zuko vehemently denied it, everyone knew he enjoyed their weekly music nights. (“It’s not _bad_ ,” he reluctantly conceded after Jin, one of the other servers, caught him tapping his foot along to one of their customer’s self-composed pieces. He huffed a sigh of annoyance when all he received was a poorly suppressed giggle.)

Then, nearly two years later, Iroh spied a performer eagerly teaching a starry-eyed Zuko how to play a note on her guzheng, and his heart seemed to relax at last.

Zuko was happier; that much had been clear for a long time. But the world of music had haunted their family for an even longer time. Iroh had seen the looks Zuko still gave to the old piano sitting in the corner of their shop. He recognized these looks. They were the same ones he gave to his violin, shut away in its case, silent and waiting. He worried that Zuko’s piano would be a ghost he could never fully bury, that it would leave an irreversible stain on his relationship to music.

Watching Zuko carefully pluck his way through “Fisherman’s Song at Dusk,” Iroh dared to hope.

Perhaps a day would come when he could pick up his violin again; when Zuko could sit in front of the piano again; when they could finally play a duet together.

 _Or at the very least_ , Iroh thought to himself, _it would be nice to hear Zuko play Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20 with someone._

He held on to this hope even after he became sick.

//

Zuko had been staring at his father’s back for as long as he could remember. The memory of his first piano lesson was lost in the obscurity of early childhood, but the first time Ozai turned his back to him after a series of botched minor scales was painfully clear.

“Don’t waste my time with failure,” he’d said. “Perfection deserves my attention, not mediocrity.”

He’d been chasing after his father’s approval ever since, working tirelessly in front of music sheets and grand pianos, hoping his father would turn around and realize he was no longer an inexperienced child struggling through two octaves of a C-Minor scale. 

_Turn around_ , he prayed. _Look._

But things never changed.

At Lu Ten’s funeral, his grandfather knelt on the ground, sobbing into his hands, and Ozai brought Azula forward while Zuko watched from behind, alone. Even as a twelve-year-old, he felt it—the tie between him and his sister, like the pull between a planet and its moon, eclipsed by their father’s shadow and the gravity of his demands. The beginnings of an unbearable exhaustion swelled deep inside him.

In the years that followed, this exhaustion rose to a crescendo that drowned out the sounds of his piano. He could no longer play without feeling as if he were carrying the burden of another soul, the weight of a critical gaze that left no wrong chord or offbeat note unjudged. 

So he gave it up, and still, his father didn’t turn.

Some things never change.

Nearly five years later, Zuko stares at Ozai’s back as they follow Uncle Iroh’s coffin into the crematorium. 

A crowd of journalists swarms the front doors, buzzing with relentless questions even as the security guards hold them back. He knows his father is angry, not because the reporters had been prowling the parking lot, lying in wait for them to arrive, but because they’re here to remember Uncle Iroh.

 _Iroh, the perfect son,_ Ozai must be thinking with contempt. _Iroh, who was everyone’s favorite even after he retired. Even after he’s dead._

Ozai is smart. For the rest of the world, he plays the part of a grieving brother—but Zuko knows the truth by the rigid set of his father’s shoulders and the proud upward tilt of his head. He learned long ago how to understand these sorts of disdainful silences. Some things don’t need to be said aloud.

A week later, when interviewers tell Ozai, “We heard about your brother. It’s such a shame,” he will say, “Yes, he was a wonderful musician. I have lost a truly talented brother.”

Then, after a well-orchestrated pause: “But I still have Azula.”

Again, Zuko will feel that old and familiar fatigue, the push-and-pull of a tether mooring him to his sister—but for now, as the crematory staff place his uncle’s coffin on the tray, there is no room within him for anything but grief. When he looks to Azula, he expects to see their father reflected in her, the same diamond edge of contemptuous disregard etched into her expression.

But instead, what he sees is a single tear, bright as a polished gem, rolling down her cheek.

This story began with Sozin, but it is about Zuko and Azula.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very nervous about posting this. I've been holding on to this one for so, so long, so I hope you enjoy it ;;
> 
> (...Also, I'm so sorry about Iroh. Eep.)


End file.
